Tag Archives: Medication

Robin Williams was an amazingly gifted man. His joys and his sorrows were palpable to the audience- whether he was performing stand-up or acting. He made all of us feel: laughter, elation, sadness and pain.

His manic style and twinkling eyes were a part of my childhood- and when I heard of his suicide- I cried. I was surprised by how hard it hit me, but I believe it is also a testament to his gifts as an entertainer that I felt so connected to a man I never met.

I also cried because it always devastates me when I hear that someone who has battled depression has lost their fight. The joy and laughter that Robin Williams gave to so many was not available to him when he needed it on Monday. And the world is surely a less joyous place as a result.

Robin Williams was always very open about his demons- his struggles with depression and addiction were quite public. His larger than life joy came with a larger than life sadness. His battles with addiction and depression were violent and on Monday he lost his fight.

And this is what is tragic about depression. At 63, Robin Williams had many previous battles with depression. There were, I am sure, many days where he felt the urge to end it all. But every other day he was able to fight. For whatever reason, he did not have enough fight left in him on Monday. And tragically, that means he will never have another day, another chance to fight again.

Depression robs you of perspective- blocking out the joys of the past and the promise of tomorrow. It is a total eclipse- one that feels like it will last forever and in its darkest moments, makes you believe that it is not worth living in a world without light.

But depression can lift. And the darkness of the eclipse, if given the opportunity, will lighten- maybe not to noon day sun right away – but at least to the misty promise of dawn. If you can hold on through that darkest hour, the light does return.

Too often our society asks people to battle alone. We stigmatize depression, mental illness and addiction. We offer callous advice- telling people to cheer up or suck it up. We call those who suffer weak when in fact; fighting depression requires Herculean levels of strength. There is help for those who have depression; therapy, medication, and even meditation. But clinical depression sometimes is resistant to treatment, just as some cancers do not respond to chemo and radiation. Still- it is important to keep fighting.

I don’t know what Robin Williams was thinking on Monday. But I don’t think he could have anticipated the way the world would grieve for him. I don’t think he knew the sorrow his death would cause. I don’t think he knew or felt how deeply he was loved. I wish he had because maybe, just maybe, that knowledge could have helped him to hold on just a little longer.

So to those who are struggling- hold on til the dawn. Reach out for help. Call a therapist or a friend. You do not need to battle alone. The sun will re-emerge and so will you. Live to fight again tomorrow. The dawn will be better for having you in it.

I remember the day it began- because of course you never forget. And the odd thing about those days is that you don’t realize when you wake up that it will be a day that changes your life. When you wake up it is just a day. It is a Monday or a Wednesday. It’s just a day. For me it was Sunday.

It started with a birthday party for a friend’s toddler. It started by watching my three year old son playing and showing off my ten week old daughter. After all the excitement my son was tired. Like I always did, I went to put him down for a nap. I snuggled him as he drifted off to sleep. Or rather, he should have drifted off to sleep.

Instead he began twitching his hand in mine and then he was shaking rhythmically in my arms. And I didn’t know it as I screamed for help, as I waited for the ambulance, as I watched helplessly while he seized, that it had begun. I didn’t know about the hospital stays, the sleep deprived EEG’s, the med evac flights, the doctor’s visits, the meds, the side effects, the IEP’s, the sleep studies and all the other parts of parenting a child with epilepsy. At that moment I only knew that my baby was sick and that I couldn’t help him.

But it had begun. That day changed the trajectory of our lives. I found strength I did not know I had. I learned (slowly) that whatever expert I met, I was still the expert on my son and that I needed to stand up for what I felt in my heart to be right. I learned that parenting a child with a serious illness is a marathon and not a sprint. I learned that there are good days and bad days and though the good days often outnumber the bad, the bad ones can be so bad that they leave you reeling. I learned that asking for help on those bad days is the only way to survive it.

I also learned that people can get used to anything. The medication regimen that once seemed so difficult to coordinate became routine and the schedules that once overwhelmed us became second nature. It all just became the new normal, such that some days I forgot what it was ever like before it all began.

And it’s funny because although I can mark the day it began, I can’t mark the day it ended. We are mercifully three years seizure and medication free. I no longer watch him vigilantly while he plays (though watching him twitch in his sleep still terrifies me). I no longer worry every time I leave the house. I have adjusted to our new “new normal.”

But it’s not the same as it was before it began. I and my family were changed and marked by that day and the ones that followed. We were altered in ways mundane and meaningful. I am a better mother and advocate now than I was on that day- not that I was bad before or that I wanted to learn in the way that I did.

Life happened on that day. I can mark the before and the after. I also know that there will be other befores and afters- hopefully less traumatic than that one. Every morning I wake up, life can happen to me. And I know now I can survive it.